


Desperate Times

by Occasus



Category: Compilation of Final Fantasy VII, Final Fantasy VII (Video Game 1997), Final Fantasy VII Remake (Video Game 2020)
Genre: Blood and Injury, Established Relationship, M/M, Whumptober 2020
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-06
Updated: 2020-10-06
Packaged: 2021-03-07 16:40:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,285
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26850805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Occasus/pseuds/Occasus
Summary: Rufus weakly rolls his head around. He is covered in a sheen of sweat, his hair clinging to his damp forehead. His entire body shudders as if he can’t control it, his breathing labored and uneven. He swallows repeatedly, as if fighting the urge to gag.“Get it out.” Rufus clutches at his shoulder, his fingers splaying around the arrow shaft, knuckles white.“Wait, let me—”“Tseng,” He speaks through his teeth, “I think it’s poisoned. Get. It. Out.”
Relationships: Rufus Shinra/Tseng
Comments: 10
Kudos: 61





	Desperate Times

Tseng was uneasy about the risky arrangement from the start. Taking Rufus out into the world after nightfall, alone, was asking for trouble. 

Like slowly bleeding into open water—only a matter of time before the sharks showed up. 

But it was neither right nor fair to deny Rufus a night away from the stress and strain of his corporate domain, and Rufus asked Tseng specifically, longing to spend an evening alone with him, so in the end, Tseng acquiesced. 

“It will be fun,” Rufus insisted, his grin full of mischief, “We’ll pretend to be civilians. Like a real date.”

Tseng wasn’t naive enough to think the pair of them could fly under the radar easily, but perhaps if they were clever enough—

“What should I wear for you?”

Tseng chuckles. “Anything but white.”

The night goes surprisingly well. They have dinner and drinks at an upscale venue in Sector 8, with Tseng ensuring they stick to the dimly lit corners. Rufus wears a tan duster coat over a black turtleneck, and dark sunglasses to hide his blue eyes. Instead of his usual sleek style, Rufus has his silvery blond hair loose to further conceal his identity, and if their server recognizes him in the low light, she doesn’t make a fuss of it. 

The generous tip he leaves is anything but inconspicuous, and Tseng has to remind himself that Rufus has no idea what it’s like to be a mundane citizen of Midgar. 

He hurries them out of the venue before their server has time to put the pieces together. 

They make their way down the street at a leisurely pace. Rufus looks around thoughtfully, taking in all the sights and sounds of the district, admiring the city that will one day be his. For his part, Tseng remains on edge, wary of each passerby and shadowy corner, slipping around to the other side of Rufus anytime a car rolls slowly by, or they pass a particularly dark alley. Putting himself between Rufus and any potential danger. 

“Relax,” Rufus says, and his hand finds Tseng’s, interlacing their fingers as they stroll by the theater. He flashes Tseng a rare genuine smile, and the effect of it coupled with the way his hair falls softly across his forehead is dazzling. A glimpse of boyish charm from bygone days. 

“No one’s tried to kill us yet.”

 _“Yet,”_ Tseng emphasizes.

Rufus gives him a withered look. “You’re armed to the teeth, aren’t you?”

Tseng shrugs innocently. 

Rufus laughs, a bright, lovely sound. “I can take the man out of the suit, but can't take the Turk out of the man.”

“Your safety is still my priority.” Tseng says matter-of-factly, but finds himself grinning. 

The glow of the theater lights bathes Rufus in gold, accentuating his aristocratic features, the angle of his jaw and the perfect bow of his mouth. Rufus has always been beautiful, but he is particularly beautiful tonight, with the liberty of being himself out in the world. 

“You look very nice tonight, sir.” Tseng says, and means it. 

“Just ‘Rufus’ tonight,” Rufus corrects, and inclines his chin, preening at the compliment. 

Tseng wants to lean in and kiss him, but decides not to press their luck by wasting time lingering in the street like a pair of lovesick teenagers. He settles for squeezing Rufus’ hand instead, enjoying the fleeting moment of domestic normalcy while it lasts. 

Rufus stares at him as they walk. Tseng feels his sharp eyes on him from behind his dark lenses. 

“What is it?” 

“I’m not used to seeing your hair like that.” 

Tseng reaches up with his free hand to lightly touch his sleek bun. Not at all his favored style, but far enough removed from his norm to throw off any onlookers. A smile plays on his lips. “Do you like it?” 

“I do.” Rufus presses closer to his side, bringing his mouth to Tseng’s ear. “I look forward to letting it down soon.” 

Heat pools between Tseng’s legs beneath his coat. He forces himself not to react, knowing it riles Rufus up all the more. And sure enough, Rufus bites his lower lip while he watches Tseng’s tightly controlled expression, his thumb stroking playfully along Tseng’s knuckles where their hands are joined. 

Tseng’s pulse quickens with a familiar thrill, knowing he will soon have Rufus home, will soon have his hands under Rufus’ clothes and his mouth on his skin. 

They turn the corner to head toward the parking deck, and Tseng idly wishes they could do this more often. If only it weren’t so risky. 

The lighting in this area is poor, and Tseng keeps Rufus close to him. He scans every car, the door to the stairwell, the empty aisles. He’s probably being paranoid, but something feels _off._ The wide open space is too quiet, and there are too many shadowy places he can’t see. 

“Tseng,” Rufus says, “I need to thank you for tonight.”

Tseng turns to look at him, and the faintest gleam of silver catches his eye, flashing in his periphery. His skin prickles, like ice water being dumped down his back. 

_Click!_

Something whistles through the air as Tseng shouts _“Down!”_ and throws an arm over Rufus’ head. 

He drags them back into the cover of the nearest vehicle, crouching down and shoving Rufus behind him, reaching beneath his coat for the Shinra-issued Peacemaker holstered under his arm. 

Tseng is familiar with adrenaline and danger, like old friends. Hell, he’s grown accustomed to being shot at over the years. But all bets were off when it came to Rufus being in danger. No amount of skill or experience could prepare Tseng for this, and his hands tremble slightly on his weapon. 

The parking deck is eerily silent now, quiet enough for Tseng to hear the roar of his own blood in his ears. 

Rufus too, has gone suddenly silent. 

Anxiety tightens Tseng’s throat. He doesn’t take his eyes off the line of cars in front of him. 

“Are you alright?”

Silence. Tseng’s instincts prickle with alarm. 

_“Rufus?”_

“Tseng.” 

Rufus’ voice is thin, strained. 

The entire world grinds to a halt as Tseng turns to look at Rufus. He finds him pale, slumped against the tire of the vehicle, his expression twisted in pain. 

The glittering shaft of an arrow protrudes grotesquely from his left shoulder. 

_No no no no no no no no no—_

Torn between tending to Rufus and locating their assailant, Tseng swears and looks back out over the poorly-lit sea of cars and steel. 

“Are you breathing alright?” 

Logically, an arrow to the shoulder shouldn’t have hit anything vital, but if it had gone just a bit lower and to the right— 

“I think so,” Rufus pants, groaning. “Just hurts.” 

“Here,” Tseng turns and puts the gun in Rufus’ right hand, curling his fingers around it. He has a second under his opposite arm, which he withdraws before carefully straightening. “I’m going to do a sweep. Don’t move, do you understand me?” 

Rufus nods, breathing hard through clenched teeth. A dark stain spreads around the arrow, ruining his coat. 

“Tseng?” 

Tseng hesitates, vibrating with adrenaline.

“Be careful, please.” 

“I’ll be right back.” Tseng promises, ducking out from behind their cover. 

He is met with only dreadful silence, and wonders if the shooter bailed after firing and hitting the intended target. A quick sweep of the area confirms this. Tseng finds nothing but shadows and empty vehicles. 

Tseng’s instincts roar to pursue their attacker. To bring violent justice to the bastard who dared harm the man Tseng swore his life to protect.

But the heir of the Shinra Electric Power Company is compromised, wounded.

Tseng’s _lover_ is wounded. 

He makes a frantic call for pickup and medical attention, then sprints back to where Rufus remains collapsed against the tire. 

His blond head has lolled back on his shoulders, the bloodstain spreading farther down the sleeve of his coat. He still holds Tseng’s handgun, but has removed his sunglasses, and his blue eyes are unfocused, glassy with pain. 

“Rufus,” Tseng falls to his knees next to him. 

Rufus weakly rolls his head around. He is covered in a sheen of sweat, his hair clinging to his damp forehead. His entire body shudders as if he can’t control it, his breathing labored and uneven. He swallows repeatedly, as if fighting the urge to gag. 

“Get it out.” Rufus clutches at his shoulder, his fingers splaying around the arrow shaft, knuckles white. 

“Wait, let me—”

“Tseng,” He speaks through his teeth, “I think it’s poisoned. Get. It. Out.”

_Poisoned._

Tseng wants to believe Rufus is being dramatic, over exaggerating in classic Rufus style. But he takes inventory of Rufus’ symptoms—the feverish sweating, his worsening color, the way he shakes fitfully—and knows with a sinking feeling that he’s right. 

“I can get it out,” he says, “But it won’t be pleasant.” 

Rufus shifts toward Tseng, grimacing in pain. “Get on with it. One good yank, quickly.” 

Tseng looks at him sympathetically and shakes his head. “It’s not that simple. Pulling it out the way it went in will do more harm than good.” 

“Then what—” Rufus’ words cut off abruptly, he turns his head and heaves, retching onto the pavement before miserably slumping back against the car. When he speaks again, his voice is weak. “Do what you have to do.” 

“The arrowhead is probably barbed,” Tseng explains, shedding his coat and digging in his pocket for his knife. “Which means pulling it out will only damage the surrounding tissue worse.” 

Rufus seems content to listen to the narration, his eyes fluttering closed so that his flaxen lashes cast long shadows on his cheeks. 

Or perhaps he’s losing consciousness.

Time is of the essence. Tseng hurries to slice open the sleeve of Rufus’ coat, the thick material of his sweater beneath. 

“Stay with me,” he hears himself plead, “Say something.” 

Rufus swallows hard, moaning. “I’m alright. Just keep talking.” 

Tseng finally finds smooth, pale skin beneath Rufus’ layers. He pushes the fabric away from his chest and shoulder to eye the entry wound. It’s clean, the arrowhead embedded, but not protruding from the other side. 

The edges of the wound weep dark blood, the skin around the shaft discolored an unnatural shade of sick green. 

“The only way to cleanly remove the barbed head,” Tseng keeps talking at Rufus’ request, his hand shaking as he sets the tip of his knife against pristine white skin, “Is to widen your entry point.” 

He wishes the blade was sterile. Field medicine is never ideal and always messy, but this is _Rufus Shinra._

It can’t be helped, there’s no time to worry over it. The wound can be disinfected later when the threat of poison is removed. 

“This will hurt,” Tseng says—no need to sugarcoat it. 

Rufus nods weakly, “Do it.” 

Tseng makes the cut as quickly and cleanly as possible, widening the entry point with surgical precision. Rufus tenses, and an animal sound tears out of his throat that Tseng knows will haunt him for the rest of his life. 

“Hold on, Rufus, you’re doing well.” Tseng carefully probes the wound with his finger, murmuring apologies while Rufus squirms. Blood trickles hotly down his wrist into his shirtsleeve. He locates the barbed tip on either side of the arrowhead, just as he thought. 

Tseng wraps his slick fingers around the shaft of the arrow. “Ready?”

Rufus’ eyes are screwed shut. He jerks his chin once in affirmation.

_Please don’t be stuck in bone, please—_

The arrow pulls out cleanly, dripping black blood, and Tseng tosses it aside before wadding up the dark scrap of Rufus’ ruined sweater and pressing it tightly against the wound. 

Rufus whimpers pitifully, his eyes closed and limbs limp. 

Tseng wraps Rufus in his own coat and gathers him into his arms, holding him against his chest. Rufus’ body wracks hard enough to jar the both of them, and Tseng has never felt so terrified, so _helpless._

“Help will be here soon,” he says as much to himself as to Rufus. “Just stay with me.” Tseng brushes the sweaty hair back from Rufus’ face without thinking, and smears blood across his forehead. 

“Tseng,” Rufus whispers, clutching weakly at Tseng’s wrist. 

“Talk to me,” Tseng says, hears the frantic crack of desperation in his own voice. 

“Thank you again, for tonight.” Rufus’ eyes open a fraction, hazy with agony and impossibly blue under the sickly light. He reaches up and wipes a tear off Tseng’s cheek with his thumb that Tseng didn’t realize he’d shed. 

“We’ll do it again,” Tseng promises, offering the best smile he can muster given the circumstances. “Soon.” 

Rufus nods against his chest, exhausted. “Soon.” 

_____________________________________

When the black car finally screeches around the corner of the parking deck, brilliant white beams wash over a bloodied pair huddled against the side of a parked car. 

The leader of the Turks clutches the Shinra heir protectively in his arms, a pistol in one hand. He looks up, and his dark eyes are wild, black hair hanging around his blood-smeared face making him appear feral—until he recognizes the vehicle, then he visibly deflates with relief. 

Some hours later, Rufus Shinra is resting. Healing, bandaged. A full recovery is expected thanks to the source of the poison being removed from his body so quickly. 

Even after being assured that the company’s heir will be fine, the dark-eyed Turk never leaves his side. 

In the morning, when Rufus wakes, his loyal Turk is waiting at his bedside, and if anyone notices him lean down and press a tender kiss to the future president's mouth, they don’t mention it.

**Author's Note:**

> Me on October 1st: I’m not going to try to do any whump prompts.
> 
> Me @ 9 pm, October 5th: Nevermind, I’m going to ruin my sleep by frantically throwing together something for day 6.
> 
> *******
> 
> Now my search history includes a video of a guy firing arrows into a hunk of raw pork b/c I spent an hour researching how to remove arrows in the field before writing this...
> 
> Thanks so much for reading. Please let me know if you enjoyed it!!
> 
> You can find me on Twitter, at my main [here](https://twitter.com/occasusH), and my FF side Twitter where I scream about the Turks [here](https://twitter.com/OCCVII).


End file.
